


The Symphony

by stardropdream



Category: xxxHoLic
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no such thing as silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted January 30, 2012.

  


She operates mechanically.  She listens with her animal brain. 

She listens to the water fill her glass in the bathroom sink.  She doesn’t think because she knows when the glass is full enough, can sense the difference by the pitch change.  It’s a high pitch.

The cars on the street drive in squares.  The city is laid out to deliver cars and buses and bicycles quickly.  The hum of tires driving over asphalt, adapting to unevenness, fills her ears with every walk down the sidewalk.  It fills her ears.  There is no such thing as a smooth ride.  There is no such thing as silence.

When she sleeps, people carry on their lives.  When anyone sleeps, there are millions of others, carrying on their lives.  Above her, she listens to the drone of a plane as it crawls through the sky.

Outside, trees rustle.  The neighbors’ light goes on and shines directly into the bathroom where she stands, blinking like a dumb, startled animal.

There is no use, she thinks.

Her voice is never strong enough even to make ripples in the water glass.  Unlike the wind on top of a pond.  Unlike a spell whispering against the surface of the wind. 

She’s naked in the bathroom, light gleaming over uncovered skin.  She traces the scars that curl, jagged, up her back and touch the bottom of her neck, like the slip of fingertips against her sensitive skin—so unused to being touched.   She breathes out through her nose. 

She can’t sleep.  The room becomes like squares around her.

She steps into the shower, turns on the water and flinches under the cold spray.  The little yellow bird balances on the rod that holds up the shower curtain, and chirps quietly.  She doesn’t want the heat. 

The world reminds her too much of the silences that never exist.  Even in the perfect silence, when she sits across from him, to have him continue to smile as if nothing is wrong.  Even in the silence of words, she hears the rustle of their fidgets, the creak of the wooden floors as they whisper under her sockless feet, the doors that slide open and then closed again.  If she listens hard enough, she can hear the world outside—continuing on without caring about the way the world, for her, has crumbled completely. 

And yet she can’t find the words.  She can never find the words.

Outside, the cars drive, planes fly, and people wake to mumble. 

She stands under the water and listens to the hiss against her skin.

She operates mechanically.  She listens with her animal brain. 

She listens to the water fill her glass in the bathroom sink.  She doesn’t think because she knows when the glass is full enough, can sense the difference by the pitch change.  It’s a high pitch.

The cars on the street drive in squares.  The city is laid out to deliver cars and buses and bicycles quickly.  The hum of tires driving over asphalt, adapting to unevenness, fills her ears with every walk down the sidewalk.  It fills her ears.  There is no such thing as a smooth ride.  There is no such thing as silence.

When she sleeps, people carry on their lives.  When anyone sleeps, there are millions of others, carrying on their lives.  Above her, she listens to the drone of a plane as it crawls through the sky.

Outside, trees rustle.  The neighbors’ light goes on and shines directly into the bathroom where she stands, blinking like a dumb, startled animal.

There is no use, she thinks.

Her voice is never strong enough even to make ripples in the water glass.  Unlike the wind on top of a pond.  Unlike a spell whispering against the surface of the wind. 

She’s naked in the bathroom, light gleaming over uncovered skin.  She traces the scars that curl, jagged, up her back and touch the bottom of her neck, like the slip of fingertips against her sensitive skin—so unused to being touched.   She breathes out through her nose. 

She can’t sleep.  The room becomes like squares around her.

She steps into the shower, turns on the water and flinches under the cold spray.  The little yellow bird balances on the rod that holds up the shower curtain, and chirps quietly.  She doesn’t want the heat. 

The world reminds her too much of the silences that never exist.  Even in the perfect silence, when she sits across from him, to have him continue to smile as if nothing is wrong.  Even in the silence of words, she hears the rustle of their fidgets, the creak of the wooden floors as they whisper under her sockless feet, the doors that slide open and then closed again.  If she listens hard enough, she can hear the world outside—continuing on without caring about the way the world, for her, has crumbled completely. 

And yet she can’t find the words.  She can never find the words.

Outside, the cars drive, planes fly, and people wake to mumble. 

She stands under the water and listens to the hiss against her skin.


End file.
